


A Life Worth Living

by caityjay



Category: Captain America, Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Gen, Peggy's life is entirely AU, Pre-slash Steve/Tony - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 22:58:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caityjay/pseuds/caityjay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve receives a personal letter from a very old friend, and makes good on a promise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Life Worth Living

**Author's Note:**

> The biggest thing I'd like to point out here is that I have created an entirely different life history for Peggy in this fic than is canon in the comics. I like it better. You don't have to.
> 
> The second thing is that this is a fic about Steve. Tony is in it, and I definitely ship Steve/Tony, but this is a pre-slash fic which centers around Steve and his emotions regarding Peggy and his life before the crash (but mostly Peggy). 
> 
> Also, HUGE thank you to my bff Meg for helping me revise the crap out of this and make it something more than the random yammerings it started as, as well as [scifigrl47](http://archiveofourown.org/users/scifigrl47) for writing freaking awesome fic that got me crazy into this fandom (there's a tiny shout-out in this fic to her fanverse!).

"Captain Rogers."

Steve was pleased with himself that he only started a little when Jarvis addressed him out of nowhere. It was taking some time, but he was getting used to these things.

He glanced up from the newspaper (Stark had tried to convince him that they didn't need one, tried to show him how to use the internet to get the news, but Steve liked the paper and had put his foot down) and replied in the general direction of the ceiling, "Yes, Jarvis?"

"A letter has arrived for you. Shall I have the front desk bring it up?"

Steve blinked. "Uh, no, don't bother them. I'll just go pick it up. Thank you, Jarvis."

"Of course."

A letter. Steve pondered the implications of receiving an actual, physical letter as he neatly folded his paper, tucking it under his arm and heading for the elevator. His first thought was that it was fan mail, but since all of the Avengers' unofficial mail came to the Tower, fan letters and packages were generally sorted out and stored in an office downstairs—Steve made a habit of visiting once or twice a week to read and respond to as many letters as he could. Even so, most of the fans just left notes on the Avengers' web pages (which Clint had actually shown Steve how to use, and he was slowly getting into the habit of posting little updates there; the citizens seemed to really like that), so Steve was surprised to have gotten a letter, personal enough for Jarvis to have notified him of it. It was the first such letter he'd received since waking up in this century.

He was smiling as he approached the front desk.

"Ah, Captain Rogers," the young man behind it said, grinning back at Steve as he shifted through a pile of papers. Thomas had been new to the job when the Avengers had moved into the Tower, but he seemed to have settled in more quickly than Steve. "Picking up your mail?"

"Yes, thank you." Steve took the small envelope from the secretary and stared at it. The paper was thick, high-quality, and a soft, creamy color. The address appeared to have been printed with a typewriter—an actual typewriter, not the computer printing he was becoming used to.

_Captain Steve Rogers_  
c/o Avengers Tower  
New York, NY 10005  
USA

"You know, it's not often you guys get personal letters," Thomas was saying. "It's not a bother for us to bring them up to you."

Steve shook his head distractedly. "I don't mind," he said. He glanced up and gave the young man another smile before turning back towards the elevator. "But thank you, Thomas."

"Not a problem, sir."

As he rode back up to the Avengers' living quarters, Steve looked over the letter. It had been sent airmail from the UK; the postmark was from Tavistock, Devon. He flipped it over, and there was no return address, but his heart sped up at the thought of who might be sending him personal letters from England.

He waited until he was out of the elevator and on his way back to the dining area to open it. His hands trembled slightly as he unfolded the creamy paper and what was on it stopped him in his tracks. It was a single line of typewritten text followed by an address.

_You owe me a dance._

Steve didn't know how long he'd stood there, staring down at the single page before a shadow appeared over it, startling him out of his contemplation. He unconsciously jerked the letter against his chest, shooting an offended glare at the newcomer.

Stark was taking a few steps back, his hands raised in a show of innocence. "Whoa, sorry, Cap, hey, I was just checking to make sure you were, you know, okay. You weren't responding, and you looked kind of freaked-out there."

Steve lowered his arms, immediately feeling a little guilty. "Um. Sorry. You just... you startled me."

One dark eyebrow quirked incredulously at him. "Well I am sorry about that. Didn't really expect to startle you, seeing as how I've been talking to you—and, well, Jarvis, and maybe the toaster—since I walked in the room. About," he glanced down at his watch, "two-and-a-half minutes ago."

Now Steve could feel his face heating. He folded the letter and distractedly stuffed it back in the envelope. "Sorry," he repeated. "I, uh." He gestured vaguely with the letter. "I was reading."

"Uh, yeah," Stark replied, his tone just shy of sarcastic as he filled his coffee cup and began to liberally spread a bagel with cream cheese. "I could see that."

Silence stretched, and Stark just stared at him over his bagel. Steve took a deep breath, breaking the eye contact to look back down at the letter in his hands. He surprised even himself when he said, "I need to borrow a quinjet."

Stark blinked. "That serious?" he asked, tossing his half-finished bagel onto the counter (he hadn't bothered with a plate) and washing down a bite with coffee. "This business? Should we be assembling, here?"

"No." And Steve had to take another breath, because that had come out more strongly than he'd intended. He sighed. "No, it's... it's personal."

The eyebrow was back. "Personal. And you're taking a quinjet."

Steve was definitely blushing, now. "I would take a commercial flight, but... I don't want to be too late." He laughed. "Well, any later than I already am, I guess."

Stark just looked at him for a moment, gauging him. "Okay," he said. Steve blinked. "But I'm driving."

Steve wanted to protest, but Stark was already halfway to the elevator and he was quite possibly the most stubborn man Steve had met in this century. It wasn't worth it. Besides, Steve didn't have much training with the quinjets, yet. Still, if he had to spend two hours in a jet with someone, Tony Stark would not have been his first choice.

But beggars can't be choosers, and Stark had offered.

"So, where are we headed?" the other man asked casually as he poked buttons and checked instruments on the panel. Steve fidgeted in his seat, tugging absently at a strap as he checked the address in the letter.

"Uh, England. Tavistock, in Devon." He rattled off the full address when Stark looked back at him with raised eyebrows.

"Okay," he said, drawing it out as he turned back to the front of the jet, arching his back and shaking out his shoulders. "Better get comfortable, then."

Steve was grateful that his new colleague didn't pry. And maybe a bit ashamed that it surprised him when he didn’t.

About an hour into the flight, Steve was still lost in thought. It was easy for him to get caught up in memories, fantasies of what might have happened if he'd lived the life he'd expected to. Of the lives his friends might have had, the people he'd known before. In his own time. Since he'd opened the letter, his mind had been a constant whirl of maybes and what-ifs, hopeful and terrifying by turns. He'd worked himself up so much that he didn't notice the paper crumpling at the edges where he held it.

Even before Captain America, Steve had hoped to someday find a girl who would look at him twice, get married, have a family. He’d always just expected it; that’s just what people did, got married, had kids. And even if everyone didn’t, Steve had always wanted that for himself, someone to share his life with. That was one of the biggest differences he’d noticed since waking up. Sure, there were brighter lights and bigger buildings, different clothes and words and hairstyles, but it really stuck out to him how many people lived alone. He couldn’t help but wonder how many of them were lonely.

Steve had tried not to think about Peggy too much since waking up in the twenty-first century; she was one of the memories that hurt the most. That one promise he hadn’t been able to keep. He thought about the others, but hadn’t gotten up the courage to look anyone up. When he couldn’t turn his thoughts away, he wondered how the last 70 years had passed for Peggy. She was one of the only women he’d known in his previous life who hadn’t seemed occupied with the thought of settling down (which had made it even more attractive that she’d seemed to have taken an interest in him). But the Allies had won the war, and what would she have done when the SSR was no longer necessary? Steve didn’t know. The only thing he knew was that the thought that she might have lived her whole life alone twisted up his gut just as much as the thought of her with another man. No matter how many times he told himself she’d never been his to lose, it didn’t seem to make a difference.

"Just so you know," Stark's voice jerked him out of his thoughts like a stage hook. "Jarvis let the team know where we are. Just so nobody panics, or anything. Seeing as how we did kind of just take off in a quinjet for no apparent reason."

Steve blushed. He hadn't even thought of that. Obviously that was going to stir up some concern. He wasn't thinking at all. Wasn't thinking of what was happening here and now, anyway. "Um, thanks," he managed after clearing his throat. "That's probably a good idea."

"Yeah." The silence returned, and Steve was just settling back into it when Stark spoke up again. "She your girlfriend?"

Steve blinked and stared up at him. "What?"

Stark nodded towards the letter Steve still was still clutching. "Whoever wrote that letter. I figure, you get a letter, it barely says anything, isn't signed, isn't Avengers-related, supposedly, and it sends you off to England and into catatonia, it's probably got something to do with, you know. Your time. So. Girlfriend."

Steve was quiet for a long time. He wasn’t sure how much he wanted to share with Stark. They’d only been working together for a few months, and sharing living quarters for less than that, and the other man had only ever managed to get on Steve’s nerves. On the other hand, Tony was helping him, now. And Steve thought he could sense that his new colleague was genuinely concerned. "We never actually... We never had a chance to have our first date."

Tony didn't respond immediately. "Ah," he said after a moment of awkward silence. "Sorry." 

"It's fine," Steve all but snapped. Of course that was far from the truth, but he didn't want to discuss Peggy with Stark. He didn't want to discuss his life with anyone, really; no one here—now—had any idea what it was like. They didn't have anything to do with his life, his time.

Steve was trying to adapt, but it was so hard. And very lonely.

They didn't talk the rest of the way. Tony used the radio and found a place to land, arranged ground transport. It was strange how easy it was. Having money and status really made a difference. Steve looked out the window as the quinjet slowed, watching the once-familiar landscape of southern England speed by beneath them. It was definitely calmer, now. More green. It was a frank reminder to Steve that the war had been over for a long time.

The taxi ride from the private airport was short, if eerily quiet; the automobile was one of those small electric ones that Steve hadn't quite gotten used to not making car noises. But the countryside, at least, didn’t seem to have changed. Before he knew it, they were pulling up the long drive of a small estate. Steve got out of the taxi warily as Tony discussed something with the driver.

The main house was constructed entirely of light-colored brick, and was covered in English Ivy. Expertly pruned trees dotted the neatly manicured lawn, boxed hedges hinting at expansive gardens beyond. Steve just stood in front of the wide front steps, just looking at it, letting the reality of where he was—and who he was about to see—sink in. He was reminding himself to breathe when one of the wide front doors opened and a young woman, barely more than a teenager, with short, dark hair and a heart-shaped face stepped neatly down the broad stone steps to meet him.

"Captain Rogers?" The question was barely there, and even then only to be polite. One thing Steve was pretty used to was strangers recognizing his face.

"Yes," he confirmed anyway, since she'd been polite enough to ask.

The girl grinned. "I'm glad you're here. Gran will be so pleased to see you."

Steve forced himself to take a breath. Of course she was a grandmother. She'd lived nearly seventy years without him, and he was glad she'd moved on. Found someone else, had a family. Grown old. He reminded himself to be glad that she was still alive, that he had a chance to see her. Talk to her.

The girl glanced behind Steve, smiling. "Mr. Stark," she said.

"Please, call me Tony," the shorter man replied quickly, offering his hand. Her mouth quirked into an amused smirk as she shook it.

"Of course. Please, both of you, do come in." She led them both up the steps and out of the impending drizzle. The foyer was tall, if not overly grand, open into the second storey. A wide staircase ran along the wall to the right, curving gracefully back to a large, curtained window. The interior was all dark wood, but had been offset with light blue and white fabric accents that made the space more welcoming. Steve took a deep breath, inhaling the earthy scent of fresh-cut chrysanthemums on the table woven with the sharp citrus of furniture polish. The place was lovely, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was an intruder in a stranger’s home.

The girl turned to face them. "Sorry, I'm a bit flustered. My name is Laura, I take care of my grandmother and her estate." Laura turned to Steve and took a breath. He realized she was probably as nervous about this as he was. Well, maybe not quite as nervous. "All she really told me was to be expecting you," she admitted. "Honestly, I wasn't quite sure she was serious. But please, do, do come see her. I know she would like to see you."

Steve smiled softly, trying to be reassuring. "I'd like to see her, too."

The silence only lasted a few short breaths before Tony interrupted, "I'll just wait here, if that's alright with you."

Laura blinked up at him and blushed. "Oh, no, please, come into the parlor at least, I'll make some tea, or, or coffee, would you prefer coffee? Oh, well, just. Just let me show Captain Rogers to—"

"Please," Steve interrupted gently, "call me Steve."

"Ah, yes. Of course. I'll just show Steve up into Gran's rooms, and be right back down."

"Not a problem," Tony said, standing comfortably off to one side of the entryway. "Take your time."

"Thank you. Um, sorry, it's really just us most of the time; haven't really had a need for a housekeeper for a while."

"It's fine, miss," Steve said, smiling down at her. "This is your home, and it's lovely. We're not going to tell you how to run it."

"Speak for yourself," Tony quipped, but when Steve turned to glare at him he was grinning and winking at Laura. Laura just blushed, turning back to Steve and gesturing for him to follow her upstairs.

"She talks about you," she said softly as they climbed the wide staircase. "When I was little, all I ever wanted to hear were stories about Captain America." She blushed again, wincing. "Sorry, that's probably a little weird, isn't it?"

Steve smiled. Oddly, Laura's awkwardness was taking most of the edge off his own nerves. "It's alright," he said. "I'm kind of used to it."

They stopped in front of a half-opened door, and Laura turned to look up at him. "I'll just let her know you're here, yeah?"

Steve nodded. He couldn't seem to make his voice work anymore.

The young woman ducked into the room. "Gran? Someone's here to see you. I know, you told me so. I'll go let him in." When she returned, she pushed the door open all the way and smiled. "I'll leave you two alone," she said, and was down the hall before Steve could reply.

The room was clean and brightly lit from a large window. There were framed photographs on the walls and displayed neatly on the end tables that bracketed the sofa. Steve allowed himself to pause at one. There was Peggy, just as he remembered her, though she must have been at least a few years older. She was in a wedding dress, smiling at the camera, her arm in that of a happy-looking, tall, dark-haired man. In another, she was sitting, the same man smiling down at her and the infant in her arms.

He wrenched his eyes away from the photographs. She'd had time, he told himself. It wasn't her fault that Steve hadn't had that same time, time for his feelings for her to fade. He was happy for her. She'd been happy.

Finally, he turned his gaze to the woman seated in one of the chairs that faced the window. Her hair was bright silver, nearly white, and her skin hung loose and spotted. But Steve could see his Peggy in the structure of her face: the width of her jaw, the roundness of her cheekbones. The artist in him took that structure and painted over what he saw, smoothed the wrinkles of her face, turned back the clock. Then, slowly, he used the photographs on the walls and his own imagination to bring the Peggy he’d known as a young woman up through middle and late age and reconciled her with the woman who sat before him. 

Her eyes were closed, but as Steve approached, she spoke.

"There's a part of me that doesn't want to look at you," she said, her voice stronger than Steve had expected it to be. "I half expected this all to be a grand hoax. Like the moon landing."

Steve frowned. "Director Fury insisted that—" he stopped himself when he caught her lips quirked into a grin, clear brown eyes glinting up at him.

"Dear Lord," she said. "You are far too sweet."

They talked for hours. They talked about the war, things Steve had learned from the SHIELD videos and things that had been left out. Peggy told him all about her children and her grandchildren, especially Laura, who had started boarding here when she was fifteen, not having gotten along well in school at home. She wanted to be a nurse, and would be starting a program at a local junior college in the fall. They talked about Captain America, the stories Peggy had told over the years. They argued a little about how some of them had happened, but Steve let her win most of the arguments, even when he knew he was right.

The grey sky had been dark for a long time when Peggy lifted herself out of her chair. Steve stood automatically, but she brushed him off, walking delicately across the room to a little panel in the wall. It glowed softly when she touched it, and the soft sounds of Moonlight Serenade filled the room.

Peggy turned, tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear, and held out one small, wrinkled hand. "Are you going to dance with me or not?"

He cried, as he held her against his chest, swaying slowly with the familiar music. He cried, and she politely pretended not to notice.

-

Laura had set up guest bedrooms for them, since it was long after midnight by the time Steve came downstairs. She'd left an overly-apologetic note on a tray in the parlor, explaining that she had school in the morning but that there was food in the kitchen if he was hungry, and that Tony was using the office and his room was the third door down the hall to the left. And sorry, and thank you, and she hoped she'd get to see him before he left.

Steve smiled. He couldn't help but see a little of himself in Laura, for all that she looked like Peggy. His vision blurred and he blinked down at the note. Laura could have been his own granddaughter. He swallowed, cutting off the thought as he relaxed his grip on the paper, setting it gently back on the tray. He took a deep breath, and as he released it, he let go of all the things that might have been. With that breath, he moved on.

He passed Tony with his head lolling back, asleep in a desk chair in what must have been the office. He found his room without much trouble, and, much to his surprise, was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

-

The sun streamed in from a crack in the curtains, waking him gently along with the sound of songbirds. Seconds later, there was a loud rapping on the door.

"Hey, Cap," Tony called, sounding far too chipper for a man who'd slept in a chair. "We should probably head back soon. Apparently I forgot something that Pepper says is important, I don't know. If you want, I can get you a flight back later."

"No, that's alright," he said. "I'll come with you. Probably better to be home, anyway, you know."

"In case of bad guys, right. Hey, Laura's making waffles. And Peggy's telling some really rich stories about the old days, just so you know. Only fair to tell you, I figure we guys have to stick together, right?" With that, Stark's footsteps sounded down the hall.

Steve winced, getting up and pulling on yesterday's clothes self-consciously. He hadn't even thought to pack a bag or anything; he'd barely even expected to find Peggy, let alone stay the night at her home.

Sure enough, the three of them were in the kitchen, Tony hovering behind Laura, trying to tell her how to properly cook a waffle, Peggy seated at the small table, smiling warmly at them. She turned her smile on Steve when he entered the room.

"Your friend Mr. Stark is quite a character," she said, her eyes glinting with laughter. 

“Ugh, please,” Tony winced. “‘Mr. Stark’ was my father. Besides," he continued, lifting a blue coffee mug in a sort of salute, “there’s nothing wrong with having a little character."

"I think there's a difference between being a character and having character, Tony," Steve retorted as he took a seat, but he smiled a bit, and it was actually sort of friendly, and that was a bit strange, but also nice. 

"Potato, po-tah-to," Tony shrugged, and he turned back to the counter and his bickering with Peggy's granddaughter.

A sort of warmth spread through him as he sat at the table, smiling and listening, and just being in the presence of people who were happy. It felt comfortable, safe. Like family.

He blinked down at Peggy as her hand grasped his beneath the table.

"I am so grateful," she said softly, unheard by the two younger people at the counter, "that you are alive. I am so happy that you've been given this chance." She squeezed his hand with a strength Steve hadn't known she'd still had in her. "Don't waste it, Steve. Please. Live your life. We've all lived ours. Now it's your turn."

He expected the tears to return, but they didn't. Instead, he just smiled. He smiled down at a woman he'd once loved, a woman he still held dear.

"Yes, ma'am."

**Author's Note:**

> I think that Peggy would totally be one of those centarians who still drives herself around places. Like [this guy](http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2209981).


End file.
